By The Grace of the Fire and the Flames
by ultramarcypan
Summary: It's a terrible thing, to lose purpose in life. The Pharoh had returned, the Plana were gone, and Diva is right back at square one. He's failed in his mission and has no choice now but to reconsider the future, even if that means dredging up his past. But maybe failure isn't the end; maybe it's the key to something new
1. With a Whimper, Not a Bang

Even from where Diva's standing, held against his will in a corner of the room, he can smell the heat coming off of the iron brand. He whimpers, hating how frail his voice sounds, hating how it echos in the hostile room he's trapped in, hating the man who has his arm in an vice grip that's preventing him from bolting and the man who's holding the brand.

"Shut up," the man snarls at him, tugging his arm harshly. The tendons in his shoulder ache in protest and Diva has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making another noise. There are going to be bruises where the man's fingers are pressing into his skin, but he's helpless to do anything against someone bigger and stronger than him. Instead, he focuses all his efforts on stopping the tremors that are wracking his body. He's not nearly as successful as he hopes to be.

The brand clangs as the man holding it knocks it against the side of the fire pit that it had been resting in. Diva flinches back, an involuntary motion. Both of them men turn to look at him; the one holding the brand moves close and Diva's heart leaps into his throat.

"No," he pleads, all prior thoughts of keeping quiet flying out of his head. "No, please!"

The man holding him yanks him forward, adjusting his grip so that he's got Diva's shoulder and left wrist firmly in his grasp. "Shut _up_!" He snarls again, digging his fingers in for emphasis. "And keep still!"

The brand comes ever closer and Diva gives up all pretense of trying to behave. He thrashes wildly against his captors in a desperate attempt to wrench his arm free. When that proves fruitless, he aims a kick at his captor's shin. His foot connects with the other's leg and the man lets him go with a hiss of pain. Diva manages to wiggle halfway out of the other's grasp before he recovers.

His cheek stings as he's slapped across the face hard. The force of the blow stuns him, leaves him gasping for air and in his daze his captor manages to pin him down yet again, taking care this time to step on his feet. "Fucking brat!"

"Quit messing around," the man holding the brand says. "Let's just get this over with before I have to reheat the brand."

"Then get to it." The man holding Diva spits out. For the second time, he's tugged forward and it hurts just as badly this time around. "Do me a favor and make it hurt, yeah?"

The other snorts as Diva stares wide-eyed at the red hot iron that's now hovering just above the exposed flesh of his forearm. The man snorts at him, shaking his head. "Prayers won't help you now kid."

Diva hadn't even been aware this his lips had been moving. He has the span of a heartbeat to take in his situation fully: the prayers still tumbling unbidden from his lips, the forceful grip on his arm, and the smell of fire singeing his nose. Then the brand his moving down swiftly and time stops.

His arm is burning.

It's a searing pain, one that leaves him numb to everything else around him. He screams, in pain in fear, in gods only know what else. Diva's body goes limp and had his captor not been supporting him he would have fallen to the floor. The smell of fire has now mixed with the smell of burnt flesh and the scent makes him want to vomit as it invades his nostrils.

"HELP!" He howls. There are white starburst dancing across his vision and the world is spinning. Vaguely, he's aware of the men speaking to him but he's too far gone to process what they're saying and his world goes black.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, shooting upright off his bed. His breath comes in ragged pants that rattle around in his chest before he expels them shakily. The burn scar on his arm itches.

A dream, he realizes slowly. Nothing but a nightmare of a time long since gone. He takes a shaky breath, running his hands over his face; it's been years since he dreamed about the horrors of his childhood.

"Diva?" There's shifting next to him and then Sera's head is poking out from the blankets. She yawns, nose scrunching up, and rubs the sleep from her eyes. "Are you alright?"

The sight of his baby sister does wonders for his frayed nerves. Diva manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and prays that she won't be able to notice in the dark of the room. "I'm fine," he says quietly. "Just a bad dream."

Sera blinks at him, tilting her head to the side. "Do you want to talk about it?" She offers softly. He shakes his head.

"Nothing to talk about." There's more force in his words than he'd intended there to be and he bites his lip lightly. "I'm sorry to wake you up Sera; go back to sleep." A warm hand finds his own in the dark and squeezes.

"'kay," his sisters says around another yawn. She tugs him back down onto the mattress, snuggling into his chest as they collapse. Automatically, he reaches around to embrace his sister, holding her more securely against him. "Night Diva."

"Goodnight Sera." Within a few minutes, her breathing evens out and she's sleeping soundly tucked up against him. He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle her, brushing some of her hair back from her face.

Without her to distract him, his dream comes back vividly. Diva shudders, bringing his hand up to run his thumb across the brand on his forearm. _Enough_ , he scolds himself. _Let the past die._ He bends his face down to bury his face into Sera's hair, taking strength from his sister. If he repeats that thought over and over, maybe he'll find the peace he's been searching for for so long.

He does not sleep for the rest of the night.


	2. Bad Dreams, Good Family

Diva slips out of bed just as the first rays of the sun start to peek over the horizon.

He takes care with his movements so that he doesn't wake Sera up for a second time, making his way downstairs to the kitchen of the tiny home that they've been living in. It's been two months since their return to Cairo, two months since the Plana have disappeared from this world and two months since he's had much purpose in life. It could be worse, he supposes. Images of the Ring, cold and sharp in his hands flit briefly across his mind and he shudders. It could be so much worse. Body on autopilot, he sets about making a pot of coffee, his mind a thousand miles away, drifting listlessly from subject to subject.

He's brought back to reality when he finds his right index finger tracing over the brand on his arm.

Disgusted with himself, he flings his arm away. His sleep shirt's sleeves aren't long enough to cover the brand and right now he can't bare to look at it.

"Get it together," he mumbles to himself, busying himself with pouring a cup of coffee. "You're too old to be falling apart like this." Master Shin would scold him for acting in such a childish manner, for letting the past get to him so badly.

 _Master Shin isn't here though,_ a nasty voice in his brain reminds him. _You're all alone again._

Diva snarls wordlessly, shaking his head to dislodge the traitorous thought. _I'm not alone!_ He thinks fiercely. _I still have Sera and Mani._

As it always does, the thought of his little sister and his best friend send a wave of calm over Diva. He takes a deep breath and a small sip of his coffee and thinks instead of Sera's cheerful giggles and of Mani cooking dinner for the three of them, taking all of his teasing in that good-natured stride he's so prone to have. He moves to sit down at the kitchen table, coffee cup clenched in his hands.

"You look terrible," a voice tells him. He looks up to see Mani standing at the foot of the staircase, concern written clearly on his face. "Do you feel alright Diva?"

"People seem to be fond of asking me that lately," he says dryly, setting his mug down. "I maintain that I'm fine; just had trouble sleeping last night."

Mani is quiet for a moment, turning that over in his mind. "Yes," he says slowly, "But a good conversation can be better than a good bed."

Diva huffs, amused despite the tiredness in his bones and the lingering unease in his heart. "And what on Earth does that mean?"

"It translates better in my language," Mani admits sheepishly, helping himself to a cup of coffee. "In essence, it means that talking out a problem with someone is more helpful than trying to ignore it."

Diva hums as he processes that. "I see," he says. "Allow me to respond with a proverb from my own language then: a friend advises in his interest, not yours."

Mani snorts into his coffee cup. "Diva!" He sputters, reaching for a napkin. Diva laughs as Mani wipes off his face, coughing a bit as he does so. "I was only trying to help!"

"I know," he says warmly. "You've always looked out for me Mani." Even back when-

Diva cuts that thought off before it strays down a dangerous past. He has no desire to reminisce about his life before this moment. Mani is still staring at him and Diva realizes he's waiting for a little bit more reassurance. "I'm fine," he says, holding his hand out to the other. After a moment of brief hesitation, Mani takes it in his own larger one and Diva squeezes it reassuringly. "I swear I'm just tired."

"Do you promise?" Mani asks him quietly. His gaze is intense, pinning Diva where he's sitting; Mani has always seemed to have a sixth sense when it comes to knowing when Diva is lying to him. It's both endearing and endlessly frustrating.

Diva says nothing, staring down at the table. His hand slides from Mani's own and he balls it up in his lap. "I..." he says, forcing the words out of his mouth. He'd sworn after everything that had happened with Kaiba that never again would he lie to Mani but he can't seem to force himself to tell the full truth. He keeps his head down, unable to meet the older boy's eyes. If he looks Mani in the eyes, his already frail resolve will shatter and he'll spill his guts out, and he's not willing to do that. Not yet, anyhow, not without sorting his thoughts out first.

"You don't have to tell me right now," Mani says. Diva risks glancing up; the other is still staring at him, though his face has softened somewhat. "But know that I'm here if you need someone to listen."

Diva has to swallow hard past the lump in his throat. He searches for the proper words to expresses his emotions and comes up short. " _Dhanyavaad_." He finally settles on, slipping back into his native language. Thank you.

Mani smiles at him, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of Diva's eyes. " _Minimi ayidelemi_." You're welcome. Even after all these years, Diva remembers the few Amharic phrases Mani had taught him while both of them huddled together at night and pretended they weren't hungry.

They fall silent after that, Diva lost to his own tumultuous thoughts and Mani having learned from experience that pushing the other is an exercise in futility. Sera comes bounding down the stairs about a half an hour later, declaring loudly how hungry she is; Mani laughs and gets up too cook breakfast and Diva pushes the issue out of his mind for the time being.


	3. Change

When Diva had been a little boy, his mother had brushed his hair every morning, humming softly to herself. He can still vaguely recall sitting in the living room with her, the birds chirping as the city of New Delhi came alive around them. If he focuses, he can still feel the comb running through his hair and tickling his scalp.

 _Sit still, nuurii,_ she would say as he squirmed impatiently in her lap. _You have such beautiful hair; it would be a shame for it to get all tangled and matted._

 _Let it,_ he'd respond childlishy. _I don't care._ Nearby, Sera would giggle at his petulance.

His mother would smile softly at him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. _But I do,_ she'd tell him, pinching his cheeks. _Such pretty hair my Deva has, my beautiful son._

He wonders what his mother would say now, knowing that his fair looks had been part of the reason he'd been ripped from her.

He'd been warned the dangers of walking the streets by himself. His father's warning echoes in his brain: _Be careful Diva; there are those in the world who would do terrible things to children. Our city is beautiful, but it is dangerous. Promise me you will be careful._

 _I promise Pita!_ He'd said, far too preoccupied with thoughts of playing outside to think too hard about what he'd been agreeing to.

Not a day goes by that he doesn't wonder what would have happened if he'd taken his father's advice just a little bit more seriously, if he'd taken a different way home from his friend's house that day so long ago, or if he'd just _waited_ for his mother like he was supposed to. The 'what-if' game, Diva has learned, is one of the worst games to play.

He'd been five and Sera had been only a year old when the two of them had been snatched from their lives and everything they knew. His memories of that day are fuzzy at best; he remembers walking down the familiar streets, thinking to himself how proud his mother would be that he had found his way home all by himself. He remembers Sera's hand in his own, and how tiny her fingers had been, sticky with the sweets she had eaten before leaving their friend's house.

He remembers a splitting pain in his skull as he'd been hit from behind, the world blurring into one giant light and then nothing until he'd woken up hours later in the back of a truck. Sera had been huddled next to him, sniffling, eyes red and puffy from crying and snot running down her nose. He'd done his best to soothe her despite the rising panic in his own body and the two of them curled up together in the back of that truck for hours, watching the dark fade to sunlight through the slats in the back.

The next week or so is another blur, a huge gap missing from his memory that he doesn't want back ever. Getting the brand on his forearm is the next solid memory he has and from there his suffering had truly begun.

He knows now what tfive-year-old Diva hadn't, that he'd been snatched off the streets by men looking for children to traffick-both him and Sera. He understands that the brand on his arm had been to mark him as property, as a slave so that he could be tracked down if he ever tried to escape. And he understands that from the second he'd been abducted his life had changed permanently.

By some miracle of God, both he and Sera had been sold to the same man. They're crammed into the back of another truck and shipped off to Cairo. Diva stands to the side, left arm wrapped in heavy bandages that match Sera's as money and hushed whispers are exchanged. Diva's kidnappers leave and the man who's bought them takes their place.

Diva still isn't sure which of the men he hates more.

Cairo is about 5000 kilometers from New Delhi; Diva knows because he's looked at a map once after being taken in by master Shin. 5,000 kilometers from the life and world he'd known. Diva doesn't understand it; the number means nothing to him. He and Sera might as well have been light years away. That at least would have been more reasonable, had seemed slightly more fair in a world that was anything but just. Egypt was not India but he'd had no choice in the matter-it was adapt or die, and Diva discovered at the tender age of five that it wasn't in his nature to take abuse lying down.

And then he'd meet Mani and life had changed again.


End file.
